The Old Man
by cammiekaye
Summary: An older man is found wandering and confused around London. The only clues to his identity are a key, a passport, and a broken watch. Who is he?
1. Chapter 1

It was morning in London's Russell Square, and a thin, grey-haired man was alternating between sitting on one of the myriad benches in the park and walking the entirety of the square. Physically, he didn't look out of place – clean black slacks, pressed white top, black jacket. He could be an office worker or perhaps a professor at the nearby university. However, if you watched him closely enough, you would notice that something seemed off about him.

Indeed, the man himself was confused about everything. He supposed that he must have been walking around the area before, but he wasn't really aware of anything before walking through the square the first (?) time. As he eased into his awareness in those first moments, he sat down on a bench and looked for clues in his pockets. In there, he found a single key, an old-fashioned pocket watch that didn't even work, a twenty pound note, and a British passport in the name of James McCrimmon. The items were unfamiliar – they felt like they were not his own. He sat racking his brain for answers, then became too full of nervous energy, so he returned his only belongings to his pockets and paced the square, thinking. How could everything just be gone? Was anyone looking for him? After a few minutes of walking around, a strong feeling forced him back to a bench. He didn't know how he knew, but somehow, he suddenly became aware that he was alone, scared, and no one was coming to help him. He scanned his seemingly empty mind for what to do next and decided that staying there was doing nothing for him, so he went to search the nearby streets for anything even vaguely familiar.

After walking for some time, the man's stomach started growling uncomfortably, so he stopped at Tesco to get something to eat. Eventually, after looking through every option like he'd never seen a triangle shaped sandwich before (which, he supposed, he hadn't), he picked up an All-Day Breakfast and paid for it with the twenty-pound note. The sandwich hit the spot and the shop visit piqued his interest, so after he finished the sandwich, he started to browse the random shops that he passed. He went around several shops until he found something that he instinctually knew that he needed: a blank notebook and a pack of pencils. Of course, now he just needed a new spot to sit, think, write, and draw whatever came to mind.

The first place the man stopped to draw was King's Cross station. He sat near the departure and arrival boards, not far from where groups of young tourists posed by Platform 9 ¾. He didn't really understand why there was a line of children with their parents taking pictures, but they seemed to enjoy themselves. While the man watched, he felt an urge to put the scene to paper, and made a rather realistic sketch of the happenings around him. He still didn't know what he did, but he could tell that he had a knack for drawing.

By the third sketch of the station, the people watching had lost its luster, so the man moved along and found a large library building. He found himself drawn inside, but as he entered, his head began to pound. He saw flashes of…. Astronauts? A woman with red hair? He sat down at the nearest table and began to draw the mental images before they floated away. His head continued to ache, but he kept drawing anyway. Once he finished, he decided to see if this library would bring any more substantial memories. He started with the reading rooms, not picking up books, but rather looking around to see if anyone or anywhere looked familiar. Nothing new came to him, and the headache persisted, so he didn't wish to stay much longer. He decided to make one last stop and visit the exhibition on the "Treasures of the British Library" before leaving. Maybe if the newer books didn't do anything for his memories, the older ones would.

Indeed, they did, but not exactly in the way intended. How was the man to know just how severely an exhibition of old books would affect him? As he glimpsed of a display with a work from Charles Dickens, the man's head felt as though it would burst with the mental images of animated corpses, blue vapor, a living Dickens, and an explosion. He stumbled away from the display, intending to leave immediately, but when he glimpsed a display of Shakespeare, more impossible images became too much for the man, and he collapsed.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Sorry about the delay, dear readers. Isn't it annoying when real life interrupts your hobbies? I'll try to get the next chapter out more quickly.

AN2: Oh, and timeline wise, the first couple of chapters are pre- "Smith and Jones," for most of the characters, so it's about 2008.

-DW-

When the man next opened his eyes, his headache had faded somewhat, and he was flat on his back in a hospital bed.

"Oh, you're awake! How are you feeling?"

The man looked towards the voice and saw an attractive young black woman in what appeared to be a doctor's coat.

"Fuzzy in the head… bit of a headache. Hey, aren't you a bit young to be a doctor? I want a proper doctor." the man said, frowning.

The woman returned the frown, "I'm still a student, but I will be a doctor soon. Your proper doctor, Dr. Palmer, will be along shortly, but I'm afraid you'll just have to deal with me for now."

"Okay, Ms. Student Doctor, what happened to me?"

"It's Martha Jones, sir, and I must first ask you: what is the last thing you recall?"

"If I knew, would I bloody well ask you?!"

Martha tried to keep a calm demeanor despite the rude man before her, "Okay, let's start with something simple. What is your name?"

The man's frown deepened, but he remained quiet.

"Sir, your name?"

"I don't know," he replied, as a new doctor arrived on the scene.

"So, Ms. Jones," Dr. Palmer began, not noticing what he was interrupting, "What can you tell me about the patient here?"

"The patient collapsed at the library and those at the scene were unable to wake him up, so they called for an ambulance..."

"Really, Ms. Jones," Dr. Palmer interrupted, "I know you are new, but you really need to work on your delivery."

"Sorry, sir."

"Let's move on." Dr. Palmer replied. "What are the patient's complaints?"

"The patient is complaining of a headache and doesn't remember his name or how he got here."

"Do we have a name on file for him?" Dr. Palmer asked.

"Yes, sir," Martha responded, "He had a passport on him, listing him as a Mr. James McCrimmon."

"Mr. McCrimmon," Dr. Palmer finally addressed the man, McCrimmon, directly, "I'm Dr. Palmer and you're in hospital. I understand that you're having trouble with your memory." McCrimmon nodded as Palmer continued, "We're going to see if we can find why you fainted and what's causing your memory loss. Ms. Jones is going to run a few tests on you, see if that helps us narrow things down."

Mr. McCrimmon, grumpy from the headache and memory loss, didn't try to hide his grouchiness, "You're entrusting my health to this girl? She's not even a real doctor – she even said so."

Dr. Palmer, accustomed to such patients, calmly replied, "Mr. McCrimmon, this is a teaching hospital. Ms. Jones will be with you, but I will still be overseeing your care. You'll be in good hands the entire time. I'll check in with you in a few hours." He then pulled aside Martha, so that they were out of earshot of the patient, "Ms. Jones, I want you to stick to this patient like glue. We'll forgo rounds for tonight."

"But, sir, the man thinks I'm just some girl."

"And with your age and gender, he'll hardly be the first. Consider this your first test. If you can't deal with one grumpy old coot, then how are you going to deal with a room full of them?" Palmer continued, "No, I want you to take charge of this patient. Go through the concussion protocol and then get a CT. Page me when you're done."


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thank you all for the follows, favorites, and the couple of reviews. Although I'm a hardcore anglophile, I'm sure there are a few Americanisms in there that I didn't catch, so sorry in advance!

-DW-

Martha had completed all the tests with Mr. McCrimmon and was now waiting on the results of the CT scan. The grumpy old man had passed all of the concussion tests that did not involve his memory, so she expected that the CT scan wouldn't help her diagnosis either. She felt out of her depth, but at least the patient seemed calmer and less grumpy once she returned his notepad and watch to him. He'd ignored the old watch, but he was looking at the drawings in the notepad. Martha was impressed with the drawing of what appeared to be people at a train station.

"That's very detailed. Did you draw it?"

"I don't remember," Mr. McCrimmon replied, "It seems familiar, but I don't even know if I can draw, let alone draw like that."

"Well, we have some time before the last of your test results are in, so why don't you try to draw me?"

Mr. McCrimmon decided to follow Martha's advice. Even though he was originally annoyed by her youth and inexperience, he found that she was growing on him. He'd been rude to her, but she stayed professional. At the very least, she seemed to be more interesting than the rest of the staff that he'd encountered. He started drawing her, but instead of drawing her as she was dressed at that moment, he found himself drawing her wearing jeans, a jacket, and a top that revealed bit more than was appropriate for their doctor-patient relationship.

Martha looked at the drawing as he finished, "Well, I suppose I should be grateful that you didn't try for a something even more risqué. Do you still really not see me as a doctor?"

"Well, you're not one," he quickly replied, "Sorry, that was rude. It's not that. Don't get me wrong, you're still way too young, but that's just the picture I get. I think that before I blacked out, there were other images in my head, of people and impossible creatures, but I can't remember them anymore."

"After some of the things that have shown up in the sky the last few years, I don't know if I'd call anything impossible. I don't suppose you remember those Cybermen things?"

"No, what were they?"

"They were like machine men – they started out like ghosts, and then suddenly, there were these robots, and they started killing people. My cousin was one of those that didn't make it through it. Then suddenly, they were gone. The government never really gave any explanation that made sense. Something about a top secret elite force."

"You will be deleted." McCrimmon said, staring off into the distance.

"What?"

"That's what they said, isn't it? I must've seen one before my accident. There was a girl with me, but I looked completely different. And there were these other things – much scarier, much angrier." McCrimmon's headache started to return full force, but he wanted to get the images out of his head and onto the page before he forgot them. Ignoring Martha for the moment, he flipped his notepad to the next blank page and began to draw.

"Ms. Jones, can I see you for a moment?" Dr. Palmer called from outside of the room that the pair were waiting in.

"I'll be right back, Mr. McCrimmon. Why don't you try to finish putting your thoughts to paper while I'm away," Martha needlessly said, as the man was no longer paying her any mind.

As Martha met up with Dr. Palmer, her elder took out an image, "Here is the scan that you took of Mr. McCrimmon. Look closely, and tell me what you see."

Martha looked as instructed, "It looks like there's some swelling in the brain. It doesn't look too severe, but it might cause his fainting and his memory loss."

"Possible causes?"

"Concussion, TBI, encephalitis, stroke…" Martha trailed off, uncertain of herself.

"Based on your physical examination of the patient, do you suspect a concussion or TBI?"

"No. I mean, he had some bruises from falling on a hard floor, but nothing that looked like a head injury. And he didn't have any weakness or trouble speaking, so it doesn't look like a stroke. Do you think it could be encephalitis?"

"It's possible, though without any other symptoms, I wouldn't jump to any conclusions. It's quite possible that the swelling is a red herring, and that the memory loss is more of a psychological than neurological issue. We'll take some blood and keep him a bit longer for observation. If there's no change, we'll get a psych consult in the morning. Are you getting on well enough that you tell him that, or should I?"

Martha thought for just a moment before replying, "No, I think I need to do it. Like you said, I need to get used to people like him. Besides, I think I'm growing on him. He went more than five minutes without insulting me."

"Just let me know if you need anything."

When Martha returned to the room, she noticed that McCrimmon was no longer absorbed in his artwork and instead had his head tilted forward, pinching his nostrils with a blood covered tissue in his hand. Other tissues in the same condition littered the floor.

"Mr. McCrimmon, are you okay?" Martha asked, as she took the tissue from the man's hand and examined his nose.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just a nosebleed. On the bright side, my head doesn't hurt as much."

Martha hoped that the nosebleed was just happenstance and told her patient as much, but she privately feared that it could be part of something bigger. She then proceeded to explain the limited findings to her patient, concluding with the possibility of consulting a psychiatrist.

"So you think I'm a nutter, do you?"

"No, Mr. McCrimmon, we don't. But, we do need to check for every possible cause of your amnesia, and if we can't find any sign of injury or disease, then that's the next step."

McCrimmon took out his notebook and flipped to a page where there was a young looking messy haired man in a pin-striped suit next to a younger woman in a light colored top and dark trousers. In front of them was something that looked like a giant pepper pot, but was somehow menacing. He pointed at the pin-striped man and explained, "No, you misunderstand me. I don't think you're crazy for thinking me a nutter. I think I might be one, because somehow, I'm sure that this is me, and that thing there," He said, now pointing at the pepper pot, "is one of the most dangerous creatures in the universe, and it is a Dalek."


	4. Chapter 4

Though her last conversation with McCrimmon unsettled her, she managed to calm him, telling him that she was sure it was nothing – probably just some movie or television show that he'd seen before. He gave her a look as if to say, "You're an idiot," but accepted her attempt at an explanation without any verbal comment. Since it was already late and the only remaining test was a blood draw, Martha escorted her patient to his room. When she left him to find a phlebotomist, he was ignoring his roommate and looking through his drawings. For that reason, she was shocked when she returned and the man had his roommate, a rather stout individual, up against the wall and was yelling at him.

"I might not remember much, but I know what you are, and I won't let you take over the world."

"What are you talking about?! I'm just a hockey coach. What's wrong with you?"

"It'll be okay, Mr. Trotz." Martha said to the distraught coach, "Mr. McCrimmon is just a little confused right now."

"He's not a hockey or whatever coach," McCrimmon said loudly and dismissively, not noticing that he was attracting a crowd, "He's a potato head… thingy. He tried to kill you and your boyfriend Ricky. But, I saved you both. You didn't see me. I was dying and it was my reward. "

Martha found herself once again reevaluating her opinion of the man. He wasn't just grumpy or confused, but was highly delusional. Why couldn't she see earlier that he was fixating on her? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Maybe she could salvage the situation, and distract the man long enough so that one of her coworkers could sedate him. Time to put on a show…

"It was you?!" Martha feigned surprise. "Thank you. Ricky and I didn't know who to thank. I'm glad that you're not dying anymore." Martha stopped, not sure that was the right thing to say.

"Yes, but I DID die. There was pain and a lot of light, and everything was exploding. And then, there was singing and a girl. No, the girl was before - OW!"

As the seemingly delirious man was absorbed in his story, another doctor snuck into the room and injected a sedative. McCrimmon looked at Martha as though she had hurt him badly, and she supposed that in a way she had. However, she knew that at this point, he had to calm down in order to ensure everyone's safety. She hoped that he would be okay, but as she helped the other doctors place McCrimmon on the bed, she had a feeling that she wouldn't get a chance to help or even see the man again.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, James McCrimmon was moved to the psych ward for further examination. When the doctors there first met him, the man didn't seem to match with the stories and drawings that Ms. Jones had passed along. He kept to himself and stared out of the window instead of interacting with the others. The doctors and nurses attempted to get a response, and some of the other patients tried to be friendly to him, but the man was strangely quiet. Perhaps a reduction in medication would help him become more active, but the doctors wared of doing so too quickly, what with his recent history. After a few days without a change in his behavior, noting the skilled hand of an artist who was able to draw such fantastical sketches, the doctors decided to send him to art therapy, in an attempt to get the man out of his shell.

Of course, it probably didn't hurt that art therapy was right before medication time, and thus he had an easier time fighting through the fog. Still, the doctors were happy to see McCrimmon respond, as he started to draw furiously when he was handed a box of crayons and a sketchbook. Sure, he still didn't talk to any of the other patients, but he was doing something more than staring into nothingness. The doctor in charge of art therapy, Dr. Debra Clayton, didn't even particularly mind that instead of drawing his emotions, as she had asked, the man was drawing doctors, patients, and humanlike rhinoceroses. That was nowhere near the strangest artwork she had ever seen, so she let the man be, and instead circulated around the room, providing encouragement to the other patients. For that reason, Dr. Clayton was shocked when she saw McCrimmon get up, throw his box of crayons and sketchbook, and start ranting. She later discovered that a nurse had interrupted him, in order to take care of his nosebleed. The man became very agitated, yelling about rhinos taking over the hospital. Debra tried to reason with the man, but he was unwilling to be reasoned with, and he was disturbing the other patients, so medication time came a bit early for him, and he was placed in a quiet room to calm down.

The next afternoon, Dr. Clayton attempted to talk to McCrimmon, but he seemed to be too groggy to do anything more than his usual staring into space. However, unlike previous encounters, really, between any of the doctors on the ward and the man, she stuck around for longer than a few minutes. After all, she had had a restless night the previous night, and was a bit tired. Why not just sit with her patient and rest for a bit? So she pulled up a chair next to his spot by the window, positioned so that she could watch the patients outside kicking around a ball and glimpse the man in the periphery of her vision. A couple of times, she thought she saw a twitch of the hand or a movement of the eye – something to show that he was conscious of the world around him. After about fifteen minutes, Debra decided that she had lounged long enough, and she went to leave the man. As she was leaving, she patted the man's hand in farewell, and was surprised to actually get a response. It wasn't much, but a light grasp of her hand and eye contact were enough to convince her that she could reach the man.

Of course, there was no good reason for Debra to feel this way, as the man had obviously responded the day before, though not in a good way. The other doctors thought that Debra was making something out of nothing, and they disagreed with her suggestion that McCrimmon's meds be reduced and that she be given care of the man. Chief among the dissenters was the newest doctor, a woman called Dr. Saxon, who gave Debra the creeps. Doctor Saxon, instead, wanted to take on the patient on her own. Debra countered that she herself had both seniority and a connection with McCrimmon, but somehow the other doctors agreed with Dr. Saxon. Saxon treated McCrimmon privately for about three months before she abruptly left. When Debra next saw the man, whatever spark she thought she had noticed was gone. He didn't respond to anyone, and Debra initially thought that the man was simply too drugged up to do so. However, when she looked at his charts, she read a diagnosis of catatonic schizophrenia. He had variously been treated with benzodiazepines (tranquilizers), barbituates, mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, and even ECT, yet his charts noted no positive change or even response. A few weeks later, upon reviewing Dr. Saxon's notes (and ignoring Debra's protests), the other doctors decided that they could help McCrimmon no further, and moved him to Fulton, a long term care facility.


	6. Chapter 6

When McCrimmon arrived at Fulton, he was still catatonic, so the staff focused mostly on taking care of his most basic needs, with no real attention paid towards his psychological well-being. For the first several weeks, there was no real response to the outside world, until eventually, McCrimmon's roommate complained about the man's incessant tapping. Then, the staff started catching the man moving ever so slightly, tapping his right hand on whatever was convenient in groups of four. That was all the staff noticed until the day the new prime minister was shot and killed by his wife.

This fateful day started as any other, with a male nurse helping McCrimmon with all the biological imperatives, before rolling him into the common room with the other residents, some who were reading, others staring off into space, and still others who were staring at the telly . The television wasn't even showing news, but rather an old episode of a cooking show. However, at the moment of the PM's death, McCrimmon jumped out of his chair, ran towards the television, and furiously flipped past station after station, yelling and crying, "He can't be dead! I don't want to be alone!" When a pair of orderlies and a doctor arrived, having heard the commotion, they found him in a heap on the floor, as a newscaster reported the death of the PM.

Eventually able to get the man into a standing, though unsteady, position, the orderlies escorted McCrimmon to a private room so that he could calm down. The doctor then provided a sleeping pill so that the man could get some actual sleep. Although this was a harrowing experience, this day was a turning point in James McCrimmon's stay. It was as if a switch had been pulled. Although he didn't remember anything more about his past (and he seemed to have only a partial recollection of his outbursts), he was no longer catatonic, and indeed, seemed constantly busy, either reading or tinkering with the latest appliance to break. The only times he wasn't busy was when there was a major crisis in the outside world, and at those times, when the all the other patients grew agitated, he could be found sleeping soundly in his room. Of course, for some of the more extensive crises, he could not sleep through the entire event, so the staff found him groggily going through his days until the crisis was averted. Still, they considered him for all intents and purposes, cured. However, for a reason that no one could define, he remained a resident of the facility for years, until a small fire caused him to be relocated to another facility. It was this move that allowed him to rediscover who he had once been.

-DW-DW-DW-

Even though he had saved the Earth countless times, both in this universe and another, Mickey Smith still grieved and felt residual guilt over his grandmother's death. That's how he found himself at the nursing home on a rare off day from defending the Earth. He was visiting his Gran's best friend, Mrs. Kingery, who had recently taken a bad fall. They had barely spoken in years, but when he had heard the news, he had flashed back on his own Gran's death. He didn't need any more regrets on his conscience.

As he approached the nursing home, he spotted a gray haired older man in dirt stained clothes muttering to himself and working on a rosebush. Mickey didn't pay much attention, until the man asked Mickey a question as he walked past.

"Excuse me, have you seen my Rose?"

"I'm not a gardener, but I'm pretty sure they're right there, mate." Mickey replied as he continued walking to the entrance, not sure that he wanted to open up the can of crazy today. Reaching the front doors, he turned around when he heard what the man said next.

"Rose, a rose….by any other name… Who is Rose? Not Rose, wolf. Big bad wolf. No, that's a children's story. I'm supposed to remember something. Oh, where are my pills?"

Mickey walked back over to the old man and began, "What did you say? Did you say bad wolf?"

The other man was massaging his own head and continued talking to himself, ignoring Mickey, "My head is pounding. I need my pills. Where are they? Are they in the dirt?" As he started digging into the dirt, Mickey decided that he wasn't going to get an answer, so he continued on to the front desk. After all, it was likely that he was imagining things.

"I'm looking for a friend of my Gran's," Mickey began to ask, as he reached the reception desk.

"Mickey Smith, is that you? Come give your Auntie Evy a hug."

Mickey found Mrs. Kingery in the common area next to the reception desk. She had been reading the newspaper and enjoying some tea when she heard the familiar voice. After he gave her a hug, Mickey sat down, and they exchanged stories of the years gone by. Mrs. Kingery had been a widow since Gran had been around, and had lived at the nursing home for five years now. She resisted the move for the longest time, but had found it harder and harder to get around, and she didn't want to be a burden to her kids. It took some time to adjust, but she had found some new friends since.

Mickey gave Mrs. Kingery a highly abridged version of his life of the last decade. He said that he had a job with the government (which wasn't exactly true, but she wouldn't have believed him if he'd told her everything) and a wife. As expected, the conversation quickly turned to his wife.

"Oh, your Gran would be thrilled that you finally settled down with a wife of your own. She always worried that she was keeping you from leaving the nest. Now, tell me all about her."

"Well," Mickey began, "her name is Martha, and she's brilliant. She's beautiful, intelligent, strong…" Mickey trailed off as he noticed a nurse escorting the confused gardener inside.

"Mr. McCrimmon, you've just tired yourself out. Come along to your room."

"Auntie," Mickey asked, "Do you know that man over there?"

"Of course, dear. It's a sad story. He's a nice enough man, but he keeps to himself. Sometimes the doctors will get him to fix the electrics, he's really good with that sort of thing, but he mostly reads or works on his flowers. He's been here for years, and I don't think that anyone has ever visited him. My friend Maggie says that he doesn't have any friends or family that he remembers. And he gets these nightmares. He tries to be quiet, but every so often, he'll wake people up, yelling about creatures coming after him. We think it's the dementia. It happens to the best of us." She sighed, "But let's get to back to happier things. Tell me more about this wife of yours."


	7. Chapter 7

By the time Mickey returned home, he had almost forgotten about the incident with the strange Mr. McCrimmon. Since he had the day off, he wanted to surprise his wife with a home cooked meal, which turned out to be a bit more complicated than he'd hoped. It was just a risotto dish that he'd heard Martha talking about the week before – not exactly Christmas supper – but it still took him much longer than he expected to prepare. He'd finished the dish just a few minutes before she came in. Yet somehow, all the work was worth it when his wife commented on the delicious smell when she came in from her day at work. After Martha had a quick shower and changed into something much more casual, the two of them sat down for their meal.

"So," Mickey began, "How was your day?"

"Oh, the usual. A few broken bones, food poisoning, car crashes. I hate to say it, but I almost wish there would be some sort of alien invasion to liven things up."

Mickey knew what she meant. Although Martha currently worked at St. Bart's, using her medical background in a traditional way, their experiences with the Doctor had made normal life unexciting. Sure, in the past, there were times that both of them had yearned for something simpler, but it says something that both of them met saving the world. Nonetheless, nowadays, they just freelanced in world-saving, and since the last Zygon incident, they had found their services unnecessary.

"Well, along with this excellent dish here," Mickey grinned, "I can't say that I took out any new alien threat, but I did meet up with Mrs. Kingery."

"That was your… grandmother's friend, right?"

"Yeah – she was almost like an aunt."

"So, what did you talk about?" Mickey went ahead and relayed the details of his visit with his pseudo aunt, and at this time, he remembered the old man that he'd encountered.

"Oh, and there was this weird guy there. McCrannon or something like that. He seemed nice enough, but he just…acted and said some strange things. At first, I thought he was the gardener, but then the nurse started talking to him as a patient. I don't know what it was, but he just had that alien vibe about him."

"Alien vibe? I don't even know what that means. Wait - don't tell me that you think he is one of those Slitheen things that you told me about."

"No, no. This guy is absolutely rail thin. The Slitheen were pretty big. This guy was almost as thin as the Doctor."

For a moment after Mickey mentioned the Doctor, Martha had a faraway look in her eyes, but it disappeared as she replied, "So, what do mean by strange things?"

"He was talking about roses and the bad wolf."

Martha smiled, "I know that you miss Rose, but that's probably just a coincidence. Maybe he was talking about a story or something. Who was he talking to?"

"No one. Himself, maybe. He just seemed confused."

"Well, you were at a care home. He might have dementia or Alzheimer's."

"It's possible," Mickey admitted, "and that's what Aunt Evy said, too. But just in case it's something bigger, I'd like you to go with me tomorrow. If it's nothing, then we can just consider it an excuse to visit Gran's friend. After all, she made me promise to bring you by."

-DW-DW-DW-DW-DW-DW-DW-

The next morning, Martha and Mickey returned to the nursing home. Their mystery gardener wasn't outside working or inside near the reception area, so they spoke to the receptionist, who directed them to the head doctor, Dr. Debra Clayton. As Martha sat in the doctor's office, waiting with her husband, she tried to remember where she had heard the name.

After a few moments, a woman just a few years older than Martha came in carrying a small pile of folders. As she sat down to speak with the couple, a look of recognition flashed on her face, and she surprised Martha by saying, "Dr. Jones, it's been awhile since you checked in on your patient."

"What do you mean? Do I know you?"

"It's been awhile. Debra Clayton." Debra leaned over to shake the pair's hands. "I was working in the psych ward back when you had just started training as a doctor. We just met in passing. Don't you remember Mr. McCrimmon? He certainly remembered you." Debra pulled out a couple of sketches of Martha wearing her favorite jacket, the one that she wore on her first trip on the Tardis. "He's gotten a lot better since you met him. No more nosebleeds, no more excitement, really, except for the occasional nightmare. Of course, he still can't remember anything from before the hospital. At least nothing sensible."

"If he's fine," Mickey started, "Then why is he in this place? And how do you call muttering stuff to yourself fine?"

"With the people we have here, you'll find that fine is a relative term. He still gets a little confused, which is why he stays here. He needs someone to look after him. It's still much better than he was when he first came to the hospital. At that point, he was a danger to himself and others."

"I think I remember who you're talking about." Martha interrupted. "Mickey, there was this man who came into the hospital. He seemed like he was a bit mad, but he was harmless. Or so we thought, until he attacked another patient…. Said he was an ali-. He said it was a Sontaran! He actually used the proper word. It couldn't be him, could it? This man was much older than the doctor we knew. But, the pictures he drew. I never made the connections before, but he drew pictures of Daleks… and of the Doctor. Could he have been a companion, and something went wrong?"

"You mean like Donna?" Mickey asked. He and Martha had run across Donna on one of their adventures, and when they tried to greet her, the redhead acted like she'd never seen them before in her life. They did a bit of research, and they realized that somehow, her mind had been completely wiped of the Doctor. Before they could help her, Donna's grandfather, Wilf, had explained that the Doctor had done that to keep Donna alive.

"Something like her, anyway," Martha replied. "We need to talk to him. See if we can find out what's happened to McCrimmon. Dr Clayton?"

"Yes?" Debra replied, not completely following the couple in front of her.

"Would it be possible for us to talk to Mr. McCrimmon?" asked Martha. "I think we might have a mutual friend."

Despite not following the couple's conversation, Debra decided that they seemed harmless enough, and walked the couple to the common area, where McCrimmon often resided. If anything happened, there was plenty of staff that could handle a disruption. She was just about to re-introduce the others to McCrimmon when Martha looked at the man and exclaimed, "Mickey, I don't think that's a companion. Look at his eyes. I think it's the Doctor."

"Doctor who?" Debra asked.


	8. Chapter 8

-AN-

Ok, so the last few chapters came out pretty quickly, because I just had to tweak some chapters that I've been holding onto for awhile. I should warn you all that it'll probably be at least a few days before the next chapter. I've already started writing it, but I'm probably not going to have much time until the year to write more.

-AN-

When the mystery man made no response to Martha's shouting of the name "Doctor," the group decided it best to excuse themselves from the common area and discuss the situation in a more private area, such as Dr. Clayton's office.

"Dr. Clayton," Martha began.

"Please, call me Debra."

"Debra," Martha began again, "I know that this is going to sound crazy, but I know who that man is."

"Of course you do. You met him about eight years ago. It's James McCrimmon."

"James McCrimmon? I know where I heard that name before. When we were on the other Earth, Rose talked about her adventures all the time," Mickey interjected. "Soon after the doc got his new face, they were in Scotland fighting werewolves, and the Doctor called himself James McCrimmon. After they were banished by the Queen…,"

"What? New face? Banished by the Queen? Werewolves? You're not making any sense."

Mickey ignored Debra's interruption. "After they were banished, Rose asked the Doctor why he didn't go by John Smith like he always does, and he said that it was because of this old Scottish friend that he had. Maybe he's that friend."

"No, Mickey. Didn't you look in his eyes? That's the Doctor. You said that when you met him, he was completely different. Maybe he changed again, and he just doesn't remember it. It's like the time he used the chameleon arch. Or when the Master did. But this time, he didn't have anyone to make sure he changed himself back."

"Wait, wait, wait," Debra tried again. "Mr. McCrimmon is just a man. He's a very troubled man, no doubt, but he's just a man. You two aren't making any sense."

Martha was incredulous, "Is this really any crazier than the Cyberman… you know, the robots that everyone thought were ghosts, until then they started attacking people? Is it crazier than a space ship crashing into Parliament? The children of earth talking in unison? Or are you one of those people that think all of those are some sort of government conspiracy."

"Well, no." Debra replied, "I try not to think about that. But what does any of this have to do with McCrimmon?"

"Oh, Debra," Martha started. "To paraphrase a friend, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. That's not James McCrimmon, not really. He is called the Doctor. He is the most dangerous man in the universe and also the most kind… and also not a man at all. He has saved us from so many alien threats through the years." And sometimes caused them, Martha thought to herself. "He's a Time Lord, and instead of dying, he changes his face. That's why I never realized that I met him at the hospital before I met and traveled with a much younger him."

"Forgiving the fact that none of that made sense, if he's not a man, and he can change his face, how is it that, through all the tests and bloodwork that we've preformed on him, he always shows up as a normal human being?"

"I've seen it happen before," Martha explained. "We were hiding from an alien threat, and the Doctor used this chameleon arch. It changed every single cell in his body so that, in every observable way, he was human. Everything Time Lord was put into a watch that he carried around, but he didn't remember why. His Tardis wove a whole new story of his life as a human, which he believed to be true. If he tried this again, but this time he didn't have anyone traveling with him, then he doesn't have any idea that he's the Doctor. Tell me, Debra, does he carry around a pocket watch?"

"No, he doesn't," Debra answered quickly.

"Are you sure? I know that he's been in different hospitals for a long time. Could he have a watch in storage somewhere?" Martha asked.

"No," Debra repeated. "When he moved here, he didn't bring anything with him. I think there was a small fire in his ward at Fulton one day, and it destroyed some of the patients' belongings. I'm not really sure of the details, but there was enough damage that he had to be transferred here during repairs. Eventually, we decided that this place was a better fit for him, and he's been here ever since. Everything that he owns were donations and gifts. None of those included any watches. Why is this so important to you?"

"Because," Martha replied, "the watch is the key to getting the Doctor back. Without it, I don't think he'll ever be the same."

-DW-DW-DW-DW-DW-DW-DW-DW

Even though Dr. Clayton wasn't entirely convinced of Martha's assertion that McCrimmon was some sort of alien, she admitted that it was within the realm of possibility, considering all that she had seen in the past decade. Because of Martha's reputation as a trustworthy doctor, she allowed the husband and wife team to continue their investigation of their friend. After Dr. Clayton excused herself so that she could take care of her daily responsibilities at the home, Martha and Mickey decided that they would try to contact Jack, in hopes that he knew another way that they could get the Doctor back. Leaving Clayton's office, Mickey went outside to make some calls, and Martha decided that it was time to talk to her old friend.

McCrimmon was just finishing a pear and starting to clean his mess when Martha approached him. He looked up at her as she began, "Mr. McCrimmon. It's been a long time. Do you remember me? My name is Martha – "

"Jones, right? Did you finally become a doctor?"

"Just call me Martha. Yes, I did. I also got married. I think that you met my husband yesterday. Mickey? You made quite an impression on him."

"I didn't meet anyone yesterday," grumbled McCrimmon. "I worked on my roses all day."

"Well, I guess it was more that he saw you gardening and asked about you. He thought that you were someone we knew years ago, which is why I'm here."

"Congratulations," McCrimmon said sardonically, "You're a regular Sherlock Holmes. I suppose that, problem solved, you'll leave….again."

Martha wasn't sure where the animosity was coming from, but she was undaunted. "No, I'm sorry. I know that it sounds strange, but I guess that you could say we met out of order. You see, you're a time traveler, and for a time, we traveled together. When I say that we knew you many years ago, I don't mean from that day at the hospital. I knew you with a different face. We battled the Daleks, met Shakespeare, and saved the universe with the help of some of your friends. Yes, you have friends – people that love you and others that will be forever grateful for your help. But part of you knew that, didn't you? You drew a picture of me with you when you had that face. And you drew a Dalek and talked of aliens, didn't you? What you thought were dreams, nightmares, and delusions were nothing of the sort. They were your memories trying to reassert themselves. I'm sorry that I dismissed you back then and never returned for you. You're not crazy, and it's time for you to go back home to your Tardis."

McCrimmon rubbed the side of his head as if pained and began, "I was wrong, you're not a nice girl. You're one of the people that Missy talked about. People who want to feed into my delusions. It's just stuff that I saw on the news, and I thought that it happened to me, but it didn't." He reached into his pocket to retrieve a blue pill bottle, shook out two clear capsules, and dry swallowed them.

"What did you just take?" Martha asked sharply, not recognizing the pills.

"Missy gave it to me for times like this. You're trying to confuse me and give me a headache." He held out the blue pill bottle. "These calm my head and keep out the delusions. I still get the nightmares, but no more passing out or attacking people because of them."

"Can I see?" McCrimmon handed Martha the bottle. There was no label, but there was a circle design on the sides and top, which reminded Martha of writing which she had seen on the Tardis. Indeed, the bottle itself was the same shade of blue as the Tardis. She shook out a capsule, which was clear enough that it looked empty, but Martha suspected that there was more to it than that. Wasn't it always so with the Doctor? Seeing Dr. Clayton nearby, Martha called her over.

"Dr. Clayton, what can you tell me about this? Mr. McCrimmon here tells me that he got these from someone named Missy?"

Debra looked at the pill bottle and the clear capsule. "This isn't ours, and the patients aren't supposed to keep pills on their person. I will need to confiscate this, Mr. McCrimmon, until we can get this to the pharmacist and determine what these are."

McCrimmon looked alarmed at her announcement. "But you can't do that. These are the only things that have kept me halfway sane. And Missy gave these to ME, not you. She was able to do something for me when you weren't. None of you could. Please, please, I need them." He reached up as if to grab the pill bottle back.

"Mr. McCrimmon," Debra chided, "You need to calm down, or we will make you calm down. You said Missy gave these to you?" McCrimmon nodded, "That was years ago. Even medication has an expiry date. We need to make sure that these won't hurt you."

"No, it wasn't years ago." He protested, "She came back once after I was in Fulton a few months. It was after my last really bad spell. She came by and said that she'd done some research – that was why she left so abruptly. She said her other therapy was just to keep me from getting sicker, but this would help me get better. She talked to the other doctors, gave me something to counteract all the other drugs that they were giving me, and said that I was fine. But, if I had any more delusions, I should take the pills. I've just had to use them a few times, especially around Christmas, and I've been fine. No side effects – I just get a little drowsy."

"None of that wasn't in your file," Debra started, "But I always found your recovery reports to be sorely lacking in detail. We'll contact Dr. Saxon and-"

Martha stopped Debra in shock, "Wait, did you just say Dr. Saxon? As in Harold Saxon?"

"No, don't be silly," Debra replied. "She had a much stranger name than that. She went by Missy because her given name was Mistress. What type of parents would call a child that?"

"Can this day get any stranger?" Martha asked no one.

"What is HE doing here?" Captain Jack Harkness demanded, marching into the room and pointing at James McCrimmon.


	9. Chapter 9

-AN-

So, there have been vague spoilers up to this point, but from here on out, there are pretty big spoilers for, well, really, anything concerning the tenth doctor, twelfth doctor, or Torchwood. That goes double for Children of Earth and the end of series 9. I think that you can still follow the story without seeing all that, but you might not understand some of the character motivation without having at least read a synopsis of a few eps.

-AN-

Making a beeline to McCrimmon, Jack shouted angrily as the old man sat silently, paling. "How dare you show your face again after all you did? I don't approve of suicide, but after seeing what the 456 did to their victims, I almost understood and felt sorry for what happened to you. Now I find out that was a lie! What did you do, fake your family's death and hide them away while Steven died? And you're trying to trick my friends now, too? I don't know what you are doing here and alive, but I will stop you from destroying any more lives."

Wanting to separate Jack from the now distraught old man, Martha pushed Jack away from McCrimmon, stating firmly, "Jack, you need to calm down and we need to talk. Alone."

Hoping to defuse the situation and give Dr. Clayton time to calm down McCrimmon, Martha took Jack away to Dr. Clayton's currently unoccupied office. When they were out of earshot, Jack asked Martha angrily, "Do you know who that is?"

"Do you?" Martha responded.

"It's John Frobisher. Do you remember the children all speaking at the same time about six years ago? Frobisher is the one who caused that. Oh, he claimed to be just another government bureaucrat who was trying to avert disaster, but there was obviously more going on. He was no innocent. He killed Ianto and he is part of the reason that my grandson died. Frobisher was supposed to be dead, too. He killed his family because he couldn't face sacrificing his kids to those monsters. Oh, to decimate the children of the world, fine. But touch his kids, and then it's time for a murder-suicide. Or so we all thought. It looks like he decided to have us all play the fool. What is he asking for now? I don't know how he got you and Mickey involved, but you can't trust him."

"What?!" Martha exclaimed. "I'm sorry about Ianto and your grandson, but this isn't who you think it is. It's the Doctor!"

"I've been around a long time, Martha, and I know all twelve of his faces. He only had one more face after he met you, and it was the face of a young man with almost translucent eyebrows. This guy is all eyebrows and even if he used the chameleon arch again, it's not going to change his face. I don't care what he tells you. This isn't the Doctor."

"First of all, he didn't tell me that he's the Doctor. I just knew when I looked at him. He doesn't have a clue who he is. He's been going by the name James McCrimmon since he was found wandering around London, because that was on his ID. Secondly," chided Martha, "you of all people are going to talk about something being impossible? You survived hanging on to the Tardis until the end of the universe. Literally. And what if he has a face that you didn't know about?"

"Time lords can only regenerate twelve times."

"So, you said you knew of twelve faces," Martha tried. "Twelve regenerations would mean thirteen faces, wouldn't it?"

Jack shoot his head, "No, the doctor you traveled with, he was the result of both the tenth and eleventh regeneration. When he was shot by a Dalek and sent the energy into his hand, he used up a regeneration. He only had one remaining after that."

Martha couldn't be swayed, "But it's the Doctor. You've told me before that until you met him, you thought that the Time Lords were just stories. Maybe the stories are wrong and there's no limit to the number. Or, maybe there's no longer any limit because there are no other Time Lords to stop him from regenerating more. How many times has he broken the rules when it suited him? No, I've looked into his eyes, and it was just like when we were hiding from the Family. Behind the confusion, I could and can see a piece of the Doctor in there. Somehow, he's been stuck this way for years. Maybe something happened to his companion. Or maybe he was traveling alone, and there was no one to save him from forgetting himself. He's been here or at another hospital for almost a decade. I didn't realize it at the time, but I met him before I met MY doctor. He drew me in the outfit that I wore on our first adventure. At first I thought it was just the drawings of a lonely old man, which in a way, it was, but it was also a memory. He drew like this back when we were hiding. He had dreams and nightmares of what he thought were fantastical creatures, and what he now thinks are delusions. But, they're not. They're memories."

"Wait, wait, wait," Jack said, sounding more curious than angry. "Are you sure this man has been hospitalized this entire time? That would mean that the Tardis has been hiding somewhere on earth and through all the invasions, battles, and even visits from the Doctor and his enemies, no one has found it?"

"I hadn't even thought about the Tardis, but yes. I just got a glimpse of his medical file, and though it's pretty vague at points, he's been at one facility or another the entire time. I wasn't sure how this could happen before his current doctor, Dr. Clayton, mentioned a Dr. Saxon, a female Doctor whose given name was Mistress. Tell me Jack, you know a bit more about the Time Lords, right? Is it possible that the Master somehow regenerated into a woman after we thought he was dead, and she decided to take revenge on the Doctor?"

A flash of anger appeared in Jack's eyes at the mention of the Master, but Martha had some good thoughts. "Well, there was a story about a Time Lord who had all sorts of powers attributed to him. I used to think that people had just rewritten the Dracula myth – they said he could put others under his thrall, put his life force into lower lifeforms or objects, and steal regenerative power. I don't know how much of that was true, but from the stories he told me while killing me over and over again, I'd say that if anyone was able to come back from certain death and become a woman, it would be the Master." Jack paused, thinking, and then continued, "Okay, let's start back at the beginning, and you tell me everything you've discovered. Then, we can talk to this Jamie character and see if you're right and it's the Doctor."


End file.
